


The Grimm of the Vales

by WhiteSwanCake (Courtorderedcake)



Series: Scraps / Drabbles / Ficlets [6]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Swan - Freeform, Dark, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Death, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Lore - Freeform, Macabre, Tale, The Pale rider, legend, myth, the grimm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 13:19:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17305328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Courtorderedcake/pseuds/WhiteSwanCake
Summary: A CS fic based very loosely on collected and repurposed lore, legend, myth and tale:From the bride’s betrayal and subsequent murder or by her own hand, be it by poison, dagger, sword or fall (intentionally or pushed) in the tragic tales of olde royalty in the UK; to the various incarnations of the Grimm; to the Fae; to the spirits of death, doom and judgement of all cultures; to the grace rites of the Pagans, Gaul, Celts and early Christian invaders-Please let your imagination run wild through misty morning gravestones, and enjoy.Rated M for death, macabre themes, mentions of sex, and violence/gore.





	The Grimm of the Vales

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bleebug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleebug/gifts).



> This is for @bleekay and @let-it-raines, who is delightfully subtle. Not for any reason really, but the fact that I sort of stole this from Blee, and Raines is releasing her final epilogue for second in command tomorrow. Go read that after this, it's brilliant.

It's his fault, it's his fault and this is his penance, the greatest torture in the world to watch her mixed with the greatest ecstasy; his vow held for an eternity on the edge of a sword.

He can still see the sword, still hear the crunch of ribs and wet sounds of his punctured lung and who knows what else. He can taste his veins in his mouth and feel them emptying out onto cobblestone floor.

It's his fault, a burden he should carry, and will carry. It's a heavy yoke of iron and guilt and blood and tears, but it replays over in his mind as he trots behind her, the uneasy alliance between them as constant as her footfalls under her stained hem.

He can still see her, still hear her, can smell the lilacs in the vase on her vanity and taste the happiness on her lips curling into a smile. He can still see her eyes widen as the oak door shatters, hear her screaming, crying, pleading, begging for them to be given safe passage before realizing that they are the last in a trail of people celebrating what would have been a new beginning, their happy ending now and forever a tragic warning.

His hand grips the hilt of his sword, and metal strikes metal as he pushes her back, he can hear her simple gown rub against stone wall, hears the muslin fabric catch roughly against it when she flattens her body.

The memory has faded in places, certain parts lost where others are vibrant, but that may be times inevitable wear or just the magic that tethers them giving the smallest reprieve. He can no longer remember what the taunt is, but he can remember the rage, and the momentary flash of crimson that causes him to lose his hand. She cries for him but he pushes her back, rushing forward with his other hand in desperation.

His attacker runs him through, and he can only watch as his killer approaches his bride in deliberate, slow, predatory steps.

She's beautiful, even through the fear and rage and hatred and agony. He loves her more than anything, more than the gold, the lordship, the privilege the man who will be his murderer wants. He loves her for her wit, the way she laughs, her scrunched face when he helps her catch toads or bait a hook for fishing, and he loves the way she says his name under the night sky when they coupled in a glade together.

He loves the way she bites her lip now, looking at him with the saddest face she's ever worn in his presence. This man will never worship her, but she will live, and see the dawn another day. There is peace beginning in the slowing beat of his heart, and the harder pulls he needs to breathe.

But, it's his fault.

It's his fault she broke off her betrothal.

It's his fault she accepted his proposal, a low man with no title and no land to speak of.

It's his fault her parents and their clan waged war; a war that now has the earth and floors of their Barrens drinking their lives.

It's his fault that she smiles at him, radiantly, and instead of letting herself ride away with a man she swore on the old Gods, the will-O-wisps that glow and beckon in the bogs, the bird song that wakes them from their dalliances, on his tongue against her skin and his name sang in air stolen from the star strewn heavens she would never marry.

It's his fault that her wedding dress and mother's hand stitched veil stream behind her when she throws herself from the tower, giving herself into the night.

It's his fault because he is screaming and so is the one to whom she was betrothed, and he can't hear the last movements of her lips, her last words goodbye as he pulls his body to the edge with his dying gasps.

It's his fault she lies below him, the white of her dress spread like wings around an angel, complete with golden halo.

It's his fault that her eyes are wide, staring, emeralds in contrast to the dark seeping spread that stains her.

It's his fault that his last words are her name, and they are drowned out by the laughter of the conqueror of their lands.

“Emma.”

* * *

He wakes, cold and shivering, wet dirt clinging to his body. It isn't quite mud yet, frost heavy in the air. He's naked, skin the color of the overcast sky above. There's a heavy fog laying on the ground that swirls almost up to his thigh, obscuring where he is. He hears the sound of scraping, walking towards it as the mist roils.

A man in a peasant shift digs a grave, stone shaped crosses of the new God laid out in crooked lines as he whistles a merry tune. The wind clears some of his surroundings, trees bare and a sprinkling of snow on the ground and gravestones, more blowing off the belfry of the tall steepled church that stands in the foreground. The bell rings from the wind, and the grave digger pauses to wipe his brow, before grunting and dropping a body in the shallow parcel with a grunt.

“Ay, don letye ‘self work ta hard now. These lot ‘n nuthin but ‘tem godless pagans from the Vale ‘a Starry Brach. Ain't worth ‘ta dirt ye be trowin’ on ‘tem.” A man calls in robes from the church. His beady eyes survey the stones. “Woulden wont ‘me honest folk of ‘t true lord ‘t rest next ‘ta ‘tem.”

“Aye, but ‘t wans I be dropping, ‘tay aren't bein’ ‘t common folk. Royalty, these lot. Lord Gold an’ his son ‘ad ‘em baptized at ‘t weddin’, before ‘t madman spilt all ‘av ‘tems blood. Last of ‘t clan Jones. ‘N orphan ‘t Nolans of Vale Starry Brach took ‘en as ken. Lookit ‘ow ‘e repaid ‘em. Shame. Youngun’ Gold mighten be filt’ wit’ a cruel streak…”

“Didya at least bury ‘t Grimm?” The robed man asked.

“Course I did. Can't ‘ave ‘em all going wiffout judgment by ‘t Lord.” The grave digger spat, and pointed to a plot far to the edge of the grounds. Beyond that, a bonfire burned bright in the woods, the smell of meat cooking wafting out of the dense trees.

“An wots dat ‘en?” The robed man asked, nodding his head towards the forest.

The grave digger made a sign over his forehead. “Dat’d be ‘t common folk.”

Killian moves toward the smoke, his skin unable to feel the heat of the fire and lungs unable to feel the burn of the smoke in his eyes. The flames are bright orange, burning high and sending ash into the still air like snow. When he looks down, he sees it and knows why he is here, his chest numb with no heartbeat to speak of.

Unburning in the fire, his family's crest is glowing red on the bronze of the ring, his hand it once graced blackened to charcoal.

There's the sound of scraping again from this yard of bones, what Emma had laughingly called a skull orchard, scoffing at the invaders and their piety over a wineskin. The monuments of their people were much more beautiful - mounds, giant rocks or cairns, beautifully decorated mosaics that graced vaults to honor the strongest warriors or wisest teachers. The sun, moon, stars, and breeze all calculated to capture shadow or light in ways that told time and held great meaning.

To be called barbaric set her teeth on edge. The old magics were strong, she would proclaim. She was right, even now their stories, culture, superstition and ritual leaked into the newcomers like the snow streams from up the mountain. They had buried a black dog, a Grimm, in hopes that it would shepherd the wicked to their version of the afterlife. The spirits of the dead were many, but the black beast of death with its eyes of fire was a favorite story to frighten wee children. Emma loved dogs, frequently slipping her favorite hounds bones from the table to their delight.

Killian had been cheered by her when he was brought to despair over his family's passing. She said that the Grimm in their woods was the largest of them, and fueled by the many burial sites of their ancestors. Even if his family's bones were not resting in their cairn, the Grimm would scare them for they were not wicked. Liam would most likely scratch its ear and send it to destroy the invaders.

It brought his heart joy to think of Liam wrestling a great black dog as his spirit hunted in the forest for all times.

* * *

The night came at last, and Killian felt sensation in his cold limbs, unpleasant and electric. It felt as if he was in the cold of a spring fed pond, while being gnawed on by angry rats. He fell to his knees, his bones cracking and searing heat licking along each muscle and tendon, pulling taut and stretching thin. A howl left his throat, unnatural and wild, and then there was blessed darkness.

He woke with difficulty, dreaming of chasing his beloved through a garden of flowers, their beauty never comparable to her own. He woke to fall into a waking nightmare.

He was no longer in the graveyard. Another graveyard, yes, but it was Summer now, his eyes blinded by the sun as it blazed down on grass, moths dancing over interspersed wildflowers. A willow tree swayed lazily, as if dancing. He was kneeling in rest, eyes barely over the top of the green shoots, when movement caught his attention. Emma stood frozen, watching him in what appeared to be terror. He tried to call out, but the cold had affected his voice, a rasped bark all he could manage as he stood -

He stood on four legs. Well. Four legs, and three feet.

She shrieked, trying to run, but his movement and size blocked her escape easily, surprising even himself. He could feel muscle in his shoulders and what he now recognized as haunches as he turned to look at the curse on his form. Black fur covered him completely, including the long straw brush like tail that was raised above him in shock. Paws with long nails dug into the warm dirt, pads rough against the sun kissed grass.

He swallowed hard, and tried to speak once more, with no success but a growl. Emma closed her eyes tightly, covering her face.

He was a Grimm, huge, larger than even the great heavy hoofed work horses they used to till the fields. He towered over Emma, and his tongue probed his canine teeth, as long as what had once been his forearm. His paws alone were the size of a serving platter in the feasting hall. 

The noise of a woman's voice startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked over to see an older woman looking at them both with vague annoyance.

“Excuse me, Dear Death and her Grimm, but may ye judge my soul and let me be free yet of this place?”

Emma peeked open an eye, and looked between the woman and his massive form. She opened her mouth to say something, closed it, looked at both of them again and then spoke.

Her voice was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard, more so now that he could hear the full tones of it.

“Excuse me, but, what now?”

“Ye be Death, are ye not? The pale rider all in white? Judges souls with her Hell Hound, who may whisk those who be wicked off to hell?” The old woman looked cautious now, eyes narrowed. “If be ye Fae, be of keen mind, my grave is salted and I am warded against your tricks by the love of his chosen son, sent to free us from sin-”

“Stop. Please.” Emma held out a hand, pinching the bridge of her nose with annoyance. “I am definitely not Fae, but I don't think I'm Death, that seems -”

“Well, take me hand, and we'll see if it is so. Be ye not Fae, and be ye with this manner of… Er… Beast,” Killian growled, and Emma laid a hand into the thick fur of his shoulder, carefully. He looked down at her, and she tentatively looked up at him, with the beginning of an amused smile. “Let us keen wot ye be.”

Killian felt himself exhale as Emma lifted her hand from him, watching her anxiously as she approached the woman. Laying her gnarled palm in Emma's hands, there was a beat as nothing happened. As Emma bit her lip, there was a sudden great burst of golden light from her hands and chest, a burst of wind making the grass and leaves of the willow stir in the ripple of the gust.

When the light cleared, a young woman stood before Emma, eyes closed and smile serene. A door appeared made out of the same golden light, and Killian watched in wonder as the woman turned, stepping through.

“Well, love. I'd say ye be Death alright.” The woman called from the door, turning to Emma. “Good luck to ye, and ta the both of ye. I hope you find the way to truth.”Emma swallowed hard, the light from the door framing her silhouette before it closed and disappeared with the woman inside.

“What. the. Fuck.” Emma said, falling back and sitting stunned in the grass. Killian made his way over and settled his large body around her, nosing his snout under her arm. Emma scratched absently, and his tail wagged, much to his annoyance. “I guess… This is a thing.” she sighed, leaning back further. “I wish… I wish Killian was here.”

She sighed again and he whined, looking at her and begging her to recognize him. She looked into his eyes, searching them. With a smile, she scratched his head and he felt his tail wag excitedly.

“I guess this isn't terrible. I do like dogs. What do you say, you help me find my Killian? We were supposed to be married but I can't seem to remember why I'm here or where here is or where he is. I'm sure a Grimm could help.” Her green eyes reflected the ice blue flames that burned in his, fire flickering outwards. “What do you say, boy?”

Killian felt his heart go as cold as the icy grounds he knew she had been buried in. Nuzzling into her softly, and cherishing the sound of her laugh, he gave a slight bark.

It was his fault. He'd follow her forever, for all time, in this life and the next...

 

He just hadn't said as human.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at Courtorderedcake.tumblr.com if you would like to say hello.


End file.
